Assassin's Creed: Hunter
by Sundown15
Summary: America is expanding out west in the spirit of Manifest Destiny. Feared bounty hunter Will Slade discovers his Assassin future and joins the American West Brotherhood in the eternal war against the Templars. Utilizing the same skills that made him a legend, he will be forced to choose between the Creed and his own brand of frontier justice.
1. Chapter 1

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania July 3, 1863

The battle was going poorly, that much clear. The lines of Federal troops were pushing the chaotic grey formations back across the field under heavy musket fire. Bodies of both blue and grey littered the grass amidst the smoke and screams. Cannon roared across the sky, thundering as its canisters exploded on impact, cutting down a Union firing line in an explosion of fire and blood.

From the safety and cover of the nearby wood, Captain Will Slade steadied his horse, a black courser called Liberty, who had been his constant companion for the past three years. Dressed in the faded grey of the 1st Virginia Cavalry, saber at his side and with a pair of Colt Dragoons, he was decidedly un-officer to his fellow comrades. He was young and at twenty five, the youngest officer of the troop. His ash blonde hair fell to his neck line and his pale blue eyes had a hardness that came with seeing too much war. They awaited the word that General J.E.B. Stuart was expecting to give them, the order to charge. A small farm lay across the field, owned by a named Rummel.

On the other side, the Yankees were lurking around there somewhere. Around him, his cavalry troop prepared to charge, drawing their sabers in unison.

His Brigadier, Fitzhugh Lee trotted down the line, raising his saber high. He was a tall and broad shouldered man, complete with a thick red beard that gave him a wild look. For years, Lee had been the light by which the troop had been guided, a true leader and believer in the Cause. Will had never been one to spurn a man for his beliefs but at heart, he was no fanatic; he fought for the Confederacy for the reason most men were doing, because he was a damn fool.

"It's been a long few days, men. I know this as well as any man but to hell with that! we're here to show these Yankee boys how to fight aren't we?!" he shouted, eliciting a battle cry from his men. Will found himself joining in, despite the progress of the day's fighting.

"Our boys have had a tough go of it for sure, but we are still in this fight!Everett reared his horse up, forcing another battle cry. Then he spun his horse around and aimed for the outer fence of the farmland.

"Follow me, boys! I'll see you on the other side!" Brigadier Lee kicked his horse onward, galloping ahead of the troop. Spurring their mounts forward, they whooped and hollered, whirling their swords over their heads. Charging headlong in the smoke, the cared little for what lay on the other side. Slade had drawn his own sword as he galloped, staying low to his horse. Both his Colts were cocked and ready to be drawn when the time came.

He could see nothing but the cries of war and shouts of victory were plain enough. The smoke stung his eyes but he pressed onward, determined to clear the fog and make for the farm.

The smoke cloud abruptly ended and the musket fire opened up in earnest. Rounds cracked by and overhead, many of them finding their mark in both man and horse. Mounts reared and threw their rider off, dead from the multiple inflicted gunshots. The blue coats were just barely visible on the other side of the fence line, all cavalry and sporting the new Spencer rifles. A seemingly endless barrage of fire halted the charge in its place, ending any hope

"Get 'em boys! For the Bonnie Blue Flag!" he heard someone shout. Slade charged into the barrage, staying low so as not to present a target. Drawing one of his Colts, he fired blindly the Union line to keep their heads down. The trooper next to him screamed and fell off his horse, shot through the jaw. As he cocked the hammer back to fire, a musket ball slammed into his shoulder, blood exploding on his cheek.

He lost control of the reigns, his horse coming to an abrupt halt. To his left, he saw a charging Union cavalrymen heading for him. Despite the pain, Slade raised the revolver and took the attacking trooper in the shoulder, forcing him to reel away. A musket ball cracked by his head and Slade spotted the man who just fired it, shooting him down. Around him, the charge was stopped completely and the Union cavalrymen were taking to the field. It was butcher's work from here on, Slade knew and had lived it many times before.

"You men, there! Don't give them an inch!" shouted Brigadier Lee, his saber and uniform bloody. Will was inspired by the sight and reacquire the Union troop, frantically reloading his musket.

He charged the man who fired at him, cutting him down as he tried to run. As he turned to rejoin his troop, an artillery canister landed several feet from him and exploded. The explosion deafened him and his mount reared up and threw him backwards in a cloud of smoke and red hot shrapnel. Will felt something pierce his shoulder and warm liquid ran down his face.

Laying on the ground, he could only hear the ringing in his ears. Struggling to move, the world seemed to slow down around him; his troop was retreating from the artillery barrage and another Union line was approaching. Managing to turn over, he witnessed a fellow trooper fall under a barrage of musket fire, bloody holes blossoming on his grey uniform. Dropping his saber, he tumbled from his horse to the ground.

Seemingly unhurt by the explosion, Will's horse had taken off in the direction of his fellow retreating comrades. Brigadier Lee was rallying what remained of the troop, calling them to retreat. Hooves thundered around him, abandoning him on the ground. Pain shot through him as he pulled himself up, drawing one of his Colt Dragoons. Thumbing the hammer back, a line of dismounted Union cavalry charged at the retreating Confederates. They approached Will, yelling their battle cries.

Will fired and took the nearest man down and sighted in the on the next. The Colt Dragoon was large gun, an update of the older Colt Walker and was infinitely more reliable. Musket and rifle shots kicked up dirt around him and one slammed into his side, dropping him to one knee. He fired again, taking the man who had just shot him.

As the soldiers approached, Slade grabbed the nearest rifle and yanked it from the man's hands. Slamming the butt into the soldier's stomach, doubling him over, Slade turned in time and deflected the saber aimed for him chest and drove him to the ground. Swinging his rifle like a club, he smashed into the soldier's temple with a crack, snapping his head to the side. Slade sensed something behind him. He slipped into a feeling of weightlessness and felt himself moving but could not control it, as if someone else was guiding him.

Spinning to face the oncoming threat, it was a Union officer raising his saber for the kill. He saw the murderous intent in him and in a strange way, could feel it burning in him. He grabbed for the officer's sword hand, kept it from striking a killing blow and with his free hand tore the officer's pistol from his holster.

He fired and fired and fired, each shot bucking the pistol in his hand. The officer's eyes went wide in pain and went slack as he toppled over. Something hard slammed into him as blue coated trooper attempted to hold him down while his comrades readied to execute him. Slamming his foot down on his boot, Slade forced the trooper to release and whirled him around to be a human shield as the soldiers fired. The bullets blossomed like bloody roses on his chest, and Will was on the move.

"You sonofabitch! You made us kill our friend!" one of them shouted as they attempted to reload their rifles. With one good hand, Will was able to draw his remaining Colt Dragoon and moving like he had never before, neatly gunned down the remaining three troopers.

"Reb bastard" Slade heard someone yell when something slammed into his head, darkening the world around him. As he slipped into the dark, Will could only ask what in the hell had happened to him.


	2. Chapter 2

****I edited the ending of the Chapter to bring it more in line with the feeling the Creed series. As we have seen, all characters tend to encounter the Assassin-Templar War early on in the story. I have a pretty good idea where I am taking this and was originally going to have Will Slade become introduced to the Assassins at around Chapter 8 but that was too far. So I have rewritten the ending of this chapter to get Slade and the reader already become aware of the secret war. Hope this makes readers happy, Enjoy.**

The pain was gone, and Will floated in nothingness. Guided by something he could begin to understand but only that it was somehow familiar, he struggled to come out of the dark. It was cold and empty, devoid of the warmth of the sun and the feel of grass. Yet he had always known it and struggled to understand the dream like state he had encountered as a child, stricken with a fever but miraculously came out the other side.

Little by little, the light filtered in and Slade could make out the world around him. The flap of a tent, sunlight peeping in. The smell of alcohol and the coppery smell of blood, a scent he knew all too well. From this he took only one meaning; he was alive.

"Welcome back to the living, young Captain." Said a kindly voice, an elderly man stepping up to him. Dressed in a surgeon's smock spattered with blood, it gave a sadistic quality to this grey beard and tired eyes, a few wisps of hair clinging to his shiny scalp. A silver crucifix hung from his neck, untouched by the blood of his apron.

"Where…am..I?" Will managed, struggling to move his arm. The pain returned, shooting up his left side and into his shoulder.

"In an army hospital, A Union one at that, you gray-back. You took a quite a few wounds there, young man and you'll have the scars to remind you of your follies. The one on your cheek adds a rather grim façade to you, I say." He chuckled, the sound of man whom, like Will, had seen too much war. In his scratchy voice, Will detected some hint of malice and

Looking down at himself, he saw his shirt was removed to his bare chest, and was bandaged around the middle. His left arm was also in a sling, the wound cleaned and sewed.

"Is this still Pennsylvania?" Will asked, his throat parched. The doctor seemingly read his mind and fetched the water pitcher, pouring some into a canteen cup. Will gulped it hastily, coughing as a result.

"Indeed it is, just off the field of battle from whence you came. It's over if you must know." said the doctor offhandedly, turning to his instrument table.

"What's over, old man?" asked Will, shifting upright in bed.

"Why, the battle. Your side was trounced soundly and left its dead or dying on the field. That young Brigadier General, that Custer has taken charge of the after action. The orders are to have all prisoners fit for the trial and sentencing." He answered solemnly. "He's a bold one, just the sort that is needed in this war and not a soft heart for the defeated."

Will chuckled grimly, unbothered by the old man's words.

"So this Yankee got hard one for us rebs. No surprise there, after all we did lose. When does this tom foolery of a trial commence?" Slade asked, his question answered a moment later. Two blue-uniformed soldiers entered, cavalry by their yellow stripes on their trousers.

"Now." Said the doctor, then almost as an afterthought he turned to the troopers. "I will need to dress him before I hand him over. Kindly step back out, gentlemen." The two troopers nodded and retreated back outside. With careful hands, the old man helped Will to his feet but he pulled back violently.

"Treatin' me a like a lamb to the slaughter, you sonofabitch?!" he shouted as the pain flared up again. The two soldiers came back in and one slammed his rifle butt into Will's side, dropping him back down.

The doctor only shook his head.

"Dignity rather than violence would suit you better, young Captain. It is simply your time is up and your day of reckoning is at hand. The Lord forgives all, but I'm simply a doctor so I don't have to." And delivered a vicious back hand slap across his cheek, and the soldiers dragged will out.

They came to a field just a ways outside the camp, Union troops ringing the perimeter. Having been unceremoniously tossed to the ground by his captors, he lay upright in the grass. It was wet from the early morning dew, cold and reviving. Surrounded by almost a hundred grey uniformed soldiers, many of them wounded and bandaged, they were truly and utterly defeated.

"Thought you was dead, Cap'n" said a voice standing over him. Will looked to see the scraggy and worn face of Ed Bell, a fellow trooper from his regiment. He took the ground next to him and began checking his wounds.

"They tried, Ed. Just not hard enough. What's to happen here?" he asked, the pain from his wounds slowly subsiding.

"Word is they aim to feed us before they ship us off to some prison barge in Delaware. I don't right fancy it but what else can we do? Hell, it ain't like any man of us is running outta here." He replied in his thick Carolina brogue.

"That's right bullshit, Ed. We're to be tried for treason against the Union by that sonofabitch Custer. Imagine that, the Boy-General himself come to judge fighting men." Will snarled, knowing full well the reputation of Custer; a glory-hound if there ever was one, but fearless as they came. There was something to be said in that and Will could respect a man for being courageous. But Custer was cut from a different cloth if the stories were to be true.

Ed shook his head in disbelief.

"Naw, it ain't like that Cap'n. The war be over for us and now we gets to sit it out. Sure, it be a damn shame we don't get to see our boys whip the Yankees what fer but I guess that's why we call it war." Then he excitedly stood up as two horse drawn carriages were brought into the clearing. Each one hurriedly took its place on both sides of the prisoners, their flaps facing inward.

'Told you, Cap'n! A general keeps it word, even he is a blue-belly!" Ed gestured to the carriages.

He failed to notice the ring of Union troops begin to step back from the prisoners. Then an officer rode in on horse, and Will already knew who it was. The boyish face with the great mustache, plumed hat and the gold trimmed uniform; George Armstrong Custer. Wild eyes scanned the Confederates, disgust and cruelty radiated from them.

Then two riders joined Custer at his side, both mounted on brown colts. Neither wore the dark blue of the hated Union but the familiar steel grey of the Confederacy, the same as Will. They were officers from their braided sleeves and slouch hats, a colonel and a major. They exchanged words between themselves then nodded to Custer.

"Cap'n, what are our own officers—"

Custer raised a white gloved hand then brought it down in a chopping motion, the Confederate officers remaining still and fixed on their comrades on the ground.

The flaps of the carriages were pulled back and the multiple barrels of a Gatling gun poked out of them.

"Ed, get down!" Will shouted a moment too late. The Gatling guns opened fire, their barrels unleashing a hell storm of fire and lead. Ed's face was contorted into a painful mask as he was stitched across the chest, collapsing on top of Will. Bullets tore into the hapless prisoners, some still on the ground while others tried to flee. Gory red holes blossomed on grey uniforms, firing even as they lay dead. It was unlike any volley fire, a continuous thunder of ear shattering shots that echoed across the field.

Some men tried to run and were cut down by rifle fire. The ones too wounded to move were mowed down where they lay, helpless and weak. The gunners swept back and forth, stopping only to reload their cartridges and continue. Smoke billowed from the carriages, the fire unceasing and the screams eventually stopped. Silence hung in the air.

Custer and the two Confederates dismounted and drew their pistols, walking amongst the dead. They came to one of the bodies, an oddly uniform man with a crimson sash around his waist. From under the dead, Slade could only make out a few words.

"…unnecessary carnage in the name of hunting you." said the young General.

"…remorse at the lives that were spent all to draw you out, Assassin." The Confederate colonel circled the body like a hawk.

"…means nothing to you, Templar…blood is all you'll ever seek." The dying man coughed.

"To bring about change, blood must always be spilled. This is a fact your predecessors knew and understand, my friend." Custer replied with conviction.

"Forcing change is not a revolution but utter control and that is all you Templars have ever wanted." Whispered the man, coughing. Custer sighed and stood.

"It is a great pity you never understand, nor will you see our Great Works brought to fruition. Farewell, Assassin." Custer raised his pistol and executed the man, the shot echoing through the woods. Rummaging through the dead man's jacket, he removed something but Will could not see.

"Excellent, gentlemen. To Washington we go and our work continues. May the Father of Understanding guide us." He said reverently.

"May the Father of Understanding guide us." The two confederates repeated, prayer-like.

The carriage flaps were tied off and pulled away, followed the troops in close formation. Last to leave was Custer and the two grey-uniformed officers, nodding in satisfaction at the day's work. With one last sweep of the carnage, they galloped off to parts unknown.

All sense of time was gone, and it must have been hours later when Will opened his eyes. The familiar stench of death and blood filled his nostrils, his senses long since accustomed to it. With his remaining strength, he pushed off the body of his friend and began to crawl out amongst the bullet ridden bodies of his comrades.

Having fought in many battles over the last three years, Will thought as he crawled over the dead, he had seen the cruelty and randomness of war. Men died in droves by volley, shot and canister, the bayonet and saber; that was war. But this was something out of a dream, the names of Templar and Assassin familiar to him like a feeling he could not place. He could not understand the origin of these feelings but only that he had to know more.

He cleared the last of the bodies and retrieved a gray frock coat from a corpse to cover his bandages. General Lee's army was retreating southward back to Virginia, maybe he could still catch them. They had been betrayed by their own, those officers who defiled the grey uniform. Party to the massacre of wounded men, their own men.

And the strange titles spoken between Custer and the dead man, the prayer for guidance. It was beyond his reason to understand but within him burned a feeling he did understand; vengeance. Vengeance against the man named Custer, titled a Templar and the two traitors at this side. Wherever this road was leading, it would end in blood and Will Slade was perfectly at ease with that.


	3. Chapter 3

_Petersburg, Virginia March 25 1865_

Artillery shells whistled over the trench lines, forcing the Confederates to once again seek cover. The shells impacted, blowing dirt high in the air with a deafening roar. In response, the Confederate batteries returned fire but their accuracy was no match for the trained Union gunners.

Clad in his greatcoat in spite of the heat of the day, Captain Will Slade stalked through the trenches, saber rattling at his side. More shells exploded around and overhead but the grizzled soldier remained unperturbed. Now something of a household name amongst the Confederates, he was referred to as "Iron Slade," both for his cold manner and demeanor under fire.

Having escaped the massacre of his men, Slade had ridden hard to catch up with the retreating Army of Northern Virginia. Its veterans exhausted and depleted, its ranks were made of increasingly young and inexperienced men hastily trained and pressed into battle. All had assumed that Captain Slade was dead and the testament of his brigade commander Fitzhugh Lee had gone unquestioned. However, when he arrived at the picket lines of the Confederate camp, he was greeted in both disbelief and awe.

The welcome was short lived as Slade requested a uniform, a new horse and an infantry command. With only handful of experienced veterans on hand, his command was granted and Slade exchanged his yellow cavalry sash for infantry crimson. With his Dragoons and sword at his side, great coat and felt hat, he was an imposing figure to look upon.

"G'day, Cap'n! Looks like the Yankees are fixin to advance soon, don't ya say?!" shouted a young private, smooth faced and wide eyed. Looking at him like one would observe an incessant fly, Slade simply replied.

"Keep your powder safe and rifle primed, though I doubt it will do you much good."

The private took this as a compliment to stir the fighting spirit of a young Johnny Reb, itching to do his part for the Bonnie Blue flag.

"We'll give them somethin to ponder on the road back north—" the private began.

"Boy, one of these shells is likely land on you before you even see a hint of blue. If it's a honorable demise you're lookin' for, then you're in the wrong place. Does your mama know you're playin' soldier? Go home while you can." Slade turned and made his way further down the trench, leaving the dumbfounded private in shock. It was the best thing he could have done for that kid, he thought. Too many new faces among the ranks and no time or desire to learn them; the end was nearing and there was little to stop it.

The shelling continued, thunderous impacts shaking the ground. Soldiers huddled under what little covered remained to wait it out. When the silence fell, nothing more needed to be said; it was time. Slade picked up his pace through the trenches and made his way towards the command past in Fort Stedman. A fortification of wooden palisades and sand berms, it had withstood both intense artillery and naval barrage.

There were no sentries on the door and Slade walked right in, finding General John Gordon poring over his large map table. Dressed in a faded grey uniform, yellow stars on his collar, he was a weary but nonetheless vibrant man. Looking up at him Will, he straightened his thick black beard and stood.

"Captain, your report if you please." He gestured to his staff huddled around him.

"The barrage has lifted. We can be expected an attack within the hour, sir." Slade reported, his voice calm and steely. He noted the exchanged looks of concern and desperation from the officers, taking some comfort in the fact that they too, knew this was lost.

"I've sent runners to the regiment and brigade commanders. An attack is already being prepared and I need you at the vanguard of it. Your force will carry the assault forward to buy time for the main force to break the Union lines." Said Gordon, gesturing Will to his map table. He pointed out the forward lines and detailed his plan.

"You're to lead a small party of sharpshooters, feigning as deserters to catch the pickets off guard. Once in their lines, overwhelm the defenders and clear the trenches for our raiding parties. Oh, your men are not to have their muskets loaded for fear of discharge. It would give the attack away, so the bayonet only."

Will knew all too well the prospect of killing a man with a bayonet had on soldiers. He had done it many times himself to understand just personal war becomes then, and most of these boys he would be leading would break under it. These men were desperate, he knew and he nodded in understanding.

The General continued.

"Once you have cleared the pickets out, you will make haste for the main Union line itself and hold their reinforcements at bay. By then, the regiments will have reached their objectives and break the siege lines. This is the hour, gentlemen; waste not."

Will turned and left the post, coat billowing behind him. Outside, dawn was not far off, the red-gold lines of the sun barely peeking over the dark clouds. Smoke and death filled the air, the acrid stench of spent powder and sulfur as thick and flies. Back through the trenches he went, making for the forward lines. The runners had already reached the brigades and men were readying themselves for the attack. Prayers were mumbled and mementoes were held close, the superstitions of the soldiers taking over. Will's own first action came to mind, the great victory at Manassas.

He was under the late General Thomas Jackson, becoming known as "Stonewall" on that day. On foot, his horse had been shot from underneath him, Will had taken up with an infantry company. He remembered his hands shaking fiercely as the Union lines charged, a mass of blue and gleaming steel bayonets. Volley after volley drove them back, and Will burned his hands changing the cylinders on his Remington New Army pistols. As the smoke cleared, the bodies of the Union soldiers lay like broken toys and Slade was called a hero.

When the fighting subsiding, the brigade had held its ground and the day was won. It was then that Will believed in the Cause, the great victory imagined by the Confederacy. State's rights be damned, Will had found that fighting never made him feel more alive; war had taken a liking to him.

The Confederates were huddled in their trenches, their faces and uniform spattered with dirt and mud. A sorry bunch if there ever was, Slade thought as he adjusted his sword and drew one of his Colt Dragoons, the pistol heavy and comforting in his hand. Checking the loads and working the hammer, the pistols had never failed him and they would not do so now, not at this hour.

Murmurs went up along the line as Will made his way through the soldiers, their faces foreign to him. They were no more than kids, his age when he first headed to West Point in what seemed a lifetime ago. They looked at him with fear and fascination, their eyes weary but hopeful.

At the head of raiding party, Will spoke up.

"We are to advance at the Union lines as deserters to catch them off guard. Quietly but quickly, we take the picket lines and give the rest of the regiment time to take position for the main attack. No shots will be fired if you can help it, boys. Keep your muskets unloaded but you will fix bayonets." He saw the trepidation on their faces.

"Killing a man is nothing. Its livin' with the fact afterwards that's the tough part." He told them without a hint of emotion. "Ready yourselves, we head out." Making his way from the trenches and into No Man's Land, Slade settled in the feeling he had first felt at Gettysburg. Around him, the world was darkening and the heartbeats of the men behind sounded like a hundred beating drums. A path illuminated at his feet, showing him the way to follow. While he could not control, it seemed to appear at the outset of battle, awakening to the impending chaos. It was a small comfort to him in a world that was quickly crumbling and devoid of most luxuries.

Guided by his sense, Will led the raiders across the torn up dirt and dead grass. Out of the darkness, figures illuminated in red light appeared one by one, glowing like lamps. More came into view, at least twenty of the pickets now marked in crimson. It was the advantage that Slade needed and relayed them to his men who readied themselves.

Then it was gone, the darkness disappearing and replaced by the pre-dawn light.

"Halt, who goes there!?" One of the Union pickets shouted.

"Men who just want to go home!" replied Slade, doing his best to sound terrified. "I'm Captain William Slade, 1st Virginian Infantry and my compatriots are here to surrender our arms and ourselves to you!" there was silence and for a moment, Will thought the ruse was up. His hand wavered over his pistols, ready to draw at moment's notice.

"Advance and stand ready to be taken into custody!" shouted a different voice, likely the officer in charge. He headed over the berm and into the Federal lines where a line of muskets awaited him and his men. Quickly confirming there the twenty men, he nodded to the sergeant next to him.

A Union officer approached, a captain of infantry. With one hand on his sword, he held out the other. "Your pistols, Captain." He was young but held himself with such authority that Will knew this man had never even seen a battlefield until today. Compliying, Will withdrew his pistols and turned them around, butt first. The captain went to take them, removing his hand from his sword.

Will spun his pistols around, thumbed the hammers back and shot the captain in the chest. He shot the man behind him before he could raise his rifle and shot another man on the berm. By then, his men had sprung into action and charged the hapless pickets, bayonets glinting in the low light. Men screamed and fought for their lives, the grey washing over the blue like an ocean. Sighting in another officer, Will blew him over an ammunition crate and shot another as he attempted to bayonet him in the side.

Few of the pickets attempted to retreat but were shot and skewered as they ran. It was butcher's work but that was war, and Will would not weep for them. As soon as it began, it was over and done, the picket line was cleared. Bodies were strewn everywhere, but a single one wore grey. The day was still early and undoubtedly there would be grey bodies everywhere soon enough, thought Will.

Inching up the berm, Will removed his telescope and held it to his eye. The Union siege lines weren't what had been initially reported; they were in fact much larger and more organized. Artillery batteries were numerous with varying calibers and well stocked with canisters. A sea of blue uniforms moved like an ocean, topped by bayonets and led by their regimental banners. The Union flag fluttered in the very center of the lines, defiant and proud.

And then Will realized they were lost.

Artillery fire opened up to his right, the Confederate forces swarming the lines. A mass of grey and brown washed over the top like a wave, billowing fire and smoke. Canister shot slammed into them, cutting through them paper. The banner of the Stars and Bars faltered under the intense fire but carried on through the onslaught, a moment of pride filling the forlorn officer.

Was all really lost, if the flag could still fly? Was there a hope in hell the tide could be turned? Will scanned the union lines and found the artillery battery, pounding away the Confederates. There were six guns, twelve pounders that were devastating to the close packed infantry formations. Yes, there was hope and it lay solely on him.

"Sergeant, have your men take position and pick off any Federals you see." He ordered as he switched out the empty chambers on his pistols.

"Where'n hell you goin, Cap'n?" the sergeant asked."

"Fixin' to do something dumber than hell but its got to be done." With that, he bounded over the berm and sprinted towards the lines. Will let his inner senses take over and guide him, legs pumping like steel springs and his greatcoat billowing behind him. He jumped over an empty trench and kept on running, the artillery fire growing louder in its duel against the infantry volleys. Leaping onto a sandbag barrier, he followed its length to the final picket line before the artillery. As the world flew by around him, Will felt the calmness take over once again and accepted that control was no longer his.

The tent lines were in sight and the few troops stood to ready their muskets. Shots rang out from behind him, cutting down the Union soldiers. Jumping to a crate of munitions, Will leaped on the top of tent, delicately balancing himself as he ran along its metal spine. Coming to its end, he jumped off and landed on another long tent roll, regaining his footing and ran.

A bullet cracked by his head and a union soldier hurried to reload. Will jumped off the tent and knocked the soldier down, slamming his fist into the man's jaw. Up ahead was the artillery battery, the guns billowing smoke. Slade ran pulled himself over the top of the last tent and spotted the officer in command, marked by the red stripes on his trousers.

Drawing his sword, he leaped down on him, driving the blade into his back. He screamed as he fell, the gunners alerted by the cry. Ripping his sword from the dead man, Slade charged the unarmed gunners with a battle cry. Cutting the first man in a spray of blood, he turned and opened the neck of another gunner, blood gushing from the wound. A trooper drew a pistol and aimed at Will, who grabbed the nearest soldier as he fired. The bullet hit his comrade in the chest and Slade pushed the corpse forward, knocking the pistol to the side. Running him through with his blade, Will kicked him off and drew his Colt Dragoon.

The few remaining gunners scrambled for whatever they find; one grabbed a pickaxe and another drew a short sword. Will easily shot them both in the chest, and spun to deflect an incoming saber slash which followed up to knock his pistol away.

"You're a damn fool, Captain! Or should I call you Assassin! I would recognize your talents anywhere!" snarled the officer who wore not blue but grey with the insignia of a General. Will knew him from sighting him many times since

"Its been years since I've heard that, but never once had anyone said it to me. You're misinformed, General." Will told him, keeping his distance and his blade up. General Hill was a thickly bearded man with a power that irradiated from him, befitting a man of both his rank and reputation.

"You Assassins are the same, you deceive and lie when you see your hand at hand. Well, I'll not be dissuaded or confused! This war will end and the sooner those fools out there are dead, the quicker it will be." Hill was fuming and began circling Slade, his fencing stance perfect.

"But you wear the grey, General, the same as me. You'd sell out your men for the promise of peace?"

Hill scoffed and shook his head.

"This merely guarantees that I control events but not my allegiance to a lost cause. The true cause lies not in nations but in freedom from chaos, born from the secession that men like you fomented. The Templar cause is the only cause there is, and it will never crumble or cease to be, not as long as men have the will to rise above their animalistic routes and seek control of their own destiny."

Will froze, his mind darting back to that fateful day at Gettysburg. The dying man had called Custer and his men Templars, as they had called him Assassin. Somehow these men were connected but how? Then the shock hit him like a musket ball; General Hill was the man next to Custer, allowing the massacre of his own men. He cursed himself for not recognizing him before.

"I've been looking for you for a long time, General. You stood alongside that bastard Custer when you cut down your own wounded after Gettysburg."

Hill looked at him oddly then his eyes went wide.

"You were there?" he said quietly.

Will nodded.

"Never leave your killing to someone else, General." And lunged at him, his blade missing. Hill brought down his sword but Will deflected and drove his shoulder into him. Regaining his footing, Hill slashed at him wildly, infuriated by the attack.

"Those men were a sacrifice, do you understand!? Their deaths were in sacrifice for the cause, the Templar cause!" he snarled and renewed his assault, launching a fury of blows that Will dodged and deflected. "You understand nothing!" He kicked out and caught Will in his leg then smashed his saber hilt into his face, dropping Slade to the ground. Standing over him victorious, Hill poised to deliver the coup de grace.

"In another life, perhaps your mind could be of service to us but contemplation is useless. This country will be united again and safely back in our throes. It's for the betterment of all, as the world will come to see. Goodbye, Assassin." He drove his blade toward Will's heart.

Rolling to the side, the blade caught Will's coat as he drew his remaining Colt Dragoon. Fanning the hammer three times, the pistol roared in his hands. Each bullet drove Hill backwards, red holes blossoming on his uniform. He fell back on the ground, eyes wide in shock. Pulling the sword out from the ground, Will picked up his discarded pistol and holstered it. Then he stood over Hill.

"This is your reckoning, General. Whatever you believe, you best hold on to it in the next life. It's all you have now." Slade holstered the Colt and knelt. Hill's eyes frantically searched for something as the light faded from them.

"You…will…condemn…all to…chaos." He gasped out the words, then rolled his head to the side, dead. Will remained over his corpse for a moment before noticing the heavy ring on Hill's finger. Pulling it loose, he saw it was fine silver with a single red cross worked into it. Pocketing the ring, he left the artillery pit and headed back across No Man's Land.

He did not pretend to understand any of this; these Templars and Assassins, whoever they were, simply brought more death in the name of their cause. There were enough causes to go around and Will had seen his go down in flames. Whatever it was, he would have no part in it nor any cause that killed so many for no reason other than its own.

As the battle wound down around him, Will resolved to get as far from this hell as possible. The Confederacy was lost and would have to face its end without him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hot damn! We sure cleaned out that pay train, didn't we boys?" cackled Ned "Greedy" Greedwell. He unceremoniously dumped the burlap sacks onto the ground, its heavy silver coins forming a great pile. Around him his gang dug their callused and dirt laden hands into the gleaming pile, allowing the coins to fall in between their fingers to the ground.

His gang consisted of the skeletal Linus Berdman, who whirled his Colt 1860 Army in and out of its holster; Billy Cook, a small red haired boy with freckles who desperately wanted to be an outlaw; the powerfully built Bull Timmons who slung his Coach Gun over his shoulder like a club and the pale faced gun-hand Kit Wade. In his low holsters he carried twin 1858 Remingtons with ebony grips engraved with white stag's antlers.

Greedy put his gang together with the promise of easy work, and good money. And of course with good money came plenty of easy women. So far, Greedy had been true to his word and put his gang hard to work robbing stagecoaches, payrolls and the occasional bank. On every job they took, they killed whomever stood in their way be it marshal, bank manager or unlucky pedestrian. Across Kansas, his gang had shot and robbed their way to infamy and fortune with no sign of stopping.

"Whatcha figure the split be, Greedy?" asked Billy Cook, biting down on one of the coins.

"No figuring to be had. I's the leader of this bunch so I get the bigger share. Thens we split even 'tween the rest of y'all." Greedy said with an uninterested gaze.

"Hold on now. We pitch in on every job, all the same. You ain't done nothing we haven't so why do you get the bigger share there, Greedy? We all partners." Bull Timmons was now cradling his shotgun as he took a step toward the gang leader.

"Eat shit, Bull. You all follows _my_ lead while you are in _my_ gang, ya hear? _Mine!_ And anyone of you slack bellied shit eaters can throw down on me if you want to leave! Once in, you ain't never out!" He hissed at the now silent bandits. Kit was idly running his fingers over the handles of pistols, like he was petting a cat. Linus Berdman had gone silent long before, eyeing the surrounding creek _._ He drew his Colt Army and edged towards the creek bed, drawing the continued scorn of Greedy, who in turn drew his own Colt.

"Now where in the hell are you going, Shithead?! When I's talking everybody is—" a shot rang out from across the creek and kicked up sand just in front his Greedy's boots. The gang shouted obscenities and sought any cover they could find. Greedy fell backwards over a fallen log, while Bull dived into a bed of weeds. With his two pistols drawn, Kit was keeping low behind the horses who had been tied up near the camp.

"Who's out there?! Why you shooting at us, we ain't shot at you!" Shouted Berdman, pistol in hand as he peeked out from the tree. There was no reply.

"If y'all thinking you can take our silver from us, you'll be full of holes and floating down this creek bed 'fore—" Another shot rang, this one catching Linus just above his right eye and blew the back of his head off. His body was thrown backwards into the sand, dead. Before anyone could move, a black horse came galloping across the creek splashing heavily through the water. Mounted in the black saddle was a rider in grey, brandishing two Colt Dragoons. He began firing as he reached the other side, forcing the gang to abandon their cover. The rider swiftly dismounted and landed on his feet, swinging one pistol to bear on Greedy who had bounded up from his cover.

Greedy fired, his shot going wide and readied to fire again. With steady aim,, the rider took Greedy in the side, a dark hole exploding through his ragged shirt. With a scream, Greedy tumbled into the creek bed with a splash. Bull thumbed the hammers back on his coach gun and let loose with both barrels, its report roaring through the woods. As the smoke cleared, the big man saw he had failed to hit their attacker and broke open his shotgun to reload. He looked up in time to the gunfighter appear out of the smoke, both his Colts aimed for Bull.

The first shot took Bull in the stomach, his shotgun dropping. The second shot hit center of the chest, blood splattering the sand at his boots. He fell into the sand, eyes and mouth wide open. The rider holstered one of his pistols and spun around with the other into a crouch. In front of him, Kit was bearing down on him with his pistols drawn.

"Three men dead, want to make four?" asked the gun hand, grinning viciously.

From beneath his beaver felt hat, Will Slade stared back at Kit with empty gray eyes. The scar below his left eye seemed to blaze white hot, giving him a grim look. His pistol belts crossed on his hip and were lined with bullets, its faded gold buckle adorned with the CSA.

"More than happy to oblige." His voice was calm and steely, his gun steady.

"See, I knew that train was a bit too easy. Rode all this way expecting a fight once we split the loot." Replied Kit, eyes locked on his adversary.

"Looks like you got it." He was a man comfortable with killing, and made no excuses.

"How much you getting for us?"

"Five hundred, dead or alive. I prefer dead." Slade answered coolly.

He saw that Kit had begun to sweat, his eyes heavy with fear. The silence hung for a moment before they sprung. Kit dashed to his left as he fired, his shot missing Will by a hairs' breadth.

Slade had already dropped to the sand and was tracking Kit as he fired. His first shot hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending one pistol into the sand. Slade's second shot caught him in in the heart. Kit dropped unceremoniously to the ground, dead. Slade then swung his pistol around towards the horses, forcing the red haired Billy Cook to drop his Colt Army. The boy had been trying to mount one of the big horses but instantly froze the second he realized the bounty hunter was aiming at him.

"P-Please. I ain't done nuthin! The-they forced me to run with them!" he fell to his knees, tears streaming down his red freckled cheeks. Slade stood up and began loading his Dragoons, his hands swift and practiced. Once his guns were loaded, he picked up the boys' pistol and turned it in his hands.

"Mighty big gun for a small boy. They forced you, you say?" he asked with indifference. He raised a brow as he waited for the boy to answer.

"Y-yes sir. See, they came into my town one day and grabbed me when I was—" Slade shot him through the leg, and he fell crying and screaming.

"Don't have a care much for liars, boy. I also don't kill children, unlike them that "forced" you. Pick your ass back up and go home. Might be findin' it a bit difficult with that leg, but thank whoever you'll be prayin to that you're alive." He stuck the Colt into his belt and turned away, making sure the wounded boy saw the Tomahawk and knife on his belt. He then set about rummaging through the bodies of the dead men.

He pulled an assortment of coins, knives and ammunition from their pockets, even a gilded pocket watch from Greedwell who had quickly bled out from his wound. Going over to Kit's body, his spurs jingling with every step, he pulled his two Remingtons and ammunition belt. Heading back to his horse, which he had named Stonewall, he slipped the loot into one of his saddlebags, satisfied in the take. He then walked over to where Greedwell had dumped the payroll bags and began filling them back up, scooping large handfuls of the heavy coins.

"W-w-what do you plan on doin' with them coins, mister?" muttered Billy Cook. His leg wound was bleeding profusely and he was working to tie a hasty tourniquet above the gaping hole.

"Some folk don't take too kindly for having their shit stole from 'em." Before tying the bags off, he slipped a handful of the coins into his greatcoat pocket. Billy Cook was about to say something before Will looked at him, eyes empty. "Finder's fee."

Finishing up, the bounty hunter took the heavy bag back to his horse and tied it secure to the saddle. From his saddle, he unsheathed a large cavalry sword. Steel caught the light, and gleamed its deadly edge. Billy had finally managed to drag himself onto a horse and was barely able to get ahold of the reins.

"Best forget about your friends here. Go on home and take care of your mama. She'll be worried about you, likely with a good switch in her hand if she got any sense." Will called out to him as the horse galloped across the stream. He stood over Greedwell's corpse and raised the blade

"Can't take all of you, friend." And he neatly severed his head from his body. He did the same for the others and tied them in a burlap sack that he hung off the back of his saddle After all, the bounty office would be needing proof of the gangs' demise and it was only half a days' ride the town of Lawrence. Their heads wouldn't be too rotted at that point.

When the Confederacy had formally surrendered, Will was none too surprised. Having survived the hell of Petersburg and the long retreat, he had needed to get away from it all; from banners and from causes, and the men who called themselves Templars. General A.P. Hill had been buried a hero with not a question asked as to the circumstances of his death. Convinced these Templars would come looking, Will had headed West with what few possessions he had, away from their eyes and far seeming reach

Not the only veteran of the war to head out that way, there was a lot of call for men of skill and repute. So he did what simply had long ago become natural; hunting the guilty for the price on their heads. In the short time he had been out in the territories, "Iron Slade" had more than a few times lived up to his deadly reputation as a gunman and hunter of men. Killing and war had come easy; it was the peace that come afterwards was difficult. Killing was his profession and he had lost count of the men he had sent to the other side, but that was in war time.

In a supposed "peacetime", Will had seen men were as evil and low as they had been during the war. The only difference was that he was paid to do his killing and that didnt go a long way to ensuring a peaceful sleep each night.


	5. Chapter 5

Lawrence was a thriving town, thanks to the influx of men and labor from back east. Its main street was bustling with horses and carriages, families and the countless carpetbaggers looking to strike it rich. It was not an easy life to choose but nonetheless appealed to the victims of a war-torn country, looking to start over.

Guiding his horse through the crowd and traffic, Will made for the bounty office across from the town's largest saloon, the Alhambra. As it was nearing sundown, business in the saloon was beginning to pick up, the sounds of music and revelry filling the air. Paying it little mind, Will dismounted and tied off his horse then removed the bloody burlap sack from the saddle. Bystanders gave him a wide berth as he was known about the town; the ruthless bounty hunter who never turned down a hunt. Inside the bounty office, the proprietor was nestled behind his desk, papers and documents strewn everywhere. The acrid smell of tobacco hung in the air, which Will ignored.

He dropped the bloody sack on the desk, scaring the little man.

"Greedy and his boys. They're still fresh enough to collect payment." Will said simply, hooking his thumbs into his pistol belt. The little bespectacled man swallowed hard then looked in the sack, nearly vomiting.

"I don't suppose there is much of a point in asking why you have only their heads." He commented as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Will grunted. "Too many for my horse. Besides, all you need is the head anyways. Now, about I collect my five hundred and we conclude our business."

The man coughed and hurriedly went into the big iron safe.

"Y-yes of course, Mr. Slade. Here you are, five hundred. Say, there is another bounty just today, some fellows rustling cattle. Maybe you'll take an interest?" Will collected the money and pocketed the thick wad of bills. Then he tipped his hat.

"I'll get to it eventually. Either way, somebody will take them boys out. Just the way the world works." With that, he turned and left, spurs jingling along the way. Making his way across the street to the saloon, he noted the five tied up horses which wouldn't have been a significant thing. Except the fact their saddles were marked as U.S. Army, the Fifth Kansas Volunteer Regiment. Called Jayhawkers by the men who served in the regiment, and to the Missouri guerillas, they were the Redlegs for their distinct gaiters they wore.

His hands hovered at his sides as he walked into the rambunctious saloon, the drinks flowing the cards games running at every table. But that was no longer his concern as he scanned the room for the hated Redlegs, thinking there was only one reason for them to be here; him. Never one to hide from the things he had done, Will had made no secret of his service to the Confederacy, hell he even still wore the gray uniform and greatcoat. Even his distinct Colt Dragoon pistols, the Whitneyville models were as much a part of him as the uniform.

Yes, they were indeed here for him. Picking one of the empty tables in a darkened corner, he took a seat and immediately found the Redlegs. Dressed in army issue blue and red leggings, they looked as hard and cold as their reputation described them. Seated at round table, one their number came down from the second floor and spoke to their officer, marked by his slouch hat.

Nodding to his comrades, they stood up and went for the stairs, hands on the pistols at their sides. Will hesitated, realizing maybe they weren't here for him after all. Still, curiosity was now gripping him and he followed them, keeping his distance. Pushing through the crowd, he made his way up the stairs. Up ahead, the Redlegs were stopped outside one of the rooms, making ready to kick it down.

They drew their guns and kicked the door in, splintering wood. Three of them charged in while the other two remained outside. His mind raced; could they be grabbing another Confederate like himself? Or was he just in the middle of something, once again, he did not understand?

He made up his mind, and drew his Colts.

"Redlegs!" he shouted, getting their attention. The one closest to him raised his pistol but Will was faster. He fired, blowing the Redleg backwards as he fired a shot into the ceiling. Below, the crowd began screaming as they scrambled in a frenzy. The remaining one managed to fire but the shot went wide, punching a hole in the wall next to Will. Moving forward, Will fired and fired, plastering the Redleg against the wall in a smear of blood.

Next, he rushed into the room, pistols ready. The three men were dead, blood pooling on the floor. A wild haired woman, locks as black as night, wearing only a bustle and corset was standing over them, two small blades disappearing into contraptions on her wrist.

"You just going to stand there and gawk, or may I get dressed?" she asked in the drawl of Missouri. Embarrassed but nonetheless intrigued, Will holstered his guns and stepped back.

"Er..sorry, ma'am. Thought you could use a hand, seeing as how there were five of them." He said sheepishly.

She laughed, showing a row of perfect teeth and a small dimple on her right cheek. Kneeling over her trunk to take out a jacket and skirt, she slipped them as Will turned away.

"While I could have taken them myself, the help is appreciated. I don't supposed we are relations, given how you dispatched them rather…loudly." She raised a brow as she buttoned her jacket halfway, leaving just a hint of bare chest.

"If I had family like you, I'm sure I would know about it." he replied, thinking the remark odd. The woman drew out a pistol belt and secured it, along with a bandolier of knives that crossed her chest. Lastly, she tied up her wild hair, away from her heart shaped face.

"Then it is simply pure luck you showed up. What do they call you?" she asked

"Will Slade when their sober and 'bastard' when I'm fixin' to hunt them down." He tipped his hat, an affection of a lifetime ago. West Point had helped teach him to be a gentleman, but war and bounty hunting had stripped away most of his formalities.

"Made a name for yourself as of late, and before that I hear. You gave them Yankees what for. I'm Belle Starr and it is about time we get on out of here. Come on now, with me." She winked and hurried to the window, yanking it open. Climbing out, she sprinted along the slated roof and vaulted to the next building. For a moment, Will was stunned into silence.

She could do what he could.

Feeling the familiar "guidance" take over, Will followed suit and sailed over the alley below and landed like a cat, on its feet. Looking at him quizzically, she asked.

"Are you we aren't of relations? You strike me as the type." They continued running along the rooftop.

"Just somethin' I picked up a few years back, is all. Seems you can too."

"Call it free-running, Will. It's what makes us special compared to everyone else." Belle called back as she leaped to the next building, Will following a moment later.

"Well, what in the hell does it mean?" he asked, keeping up the fast pace.

"Not for me to say. My Mentor will be the judge of that." And she disappeared over the side of the building, landing in a hay bale. His heart skipped a beat as he sailed over the side, landing in the prickly hay.

"Seems you're a natural, then." Belle grinned as he hauled him up. Two horses were tied up at the end of the alley and Belle ran to the small brown mustang. Will found himself remembering his own mount, Stonewall but necessity dictated him to leave his trusty companion behind. He had never been a sentimental man but suddenly found himself saddened at leaving him behind.

Mounting up, he whirled his mount around as Bella took off down the empty street. When they were clear of the town and their pursuers, she came to a slow trot.

"Well, you can handle yourself that is for certain. Would you be interested in accompanying me further?" she asked sincerely.

"Depends on where you're fixin' on headin'." He replied. Bella chuckled, showing a row of perfect white teeth.

"Some friends would be interested in meeting you, Slade. We are always on the look for talent and I pride myself on having a keen eye for such."

"These friends pay much? A man has to make a living, after all." He said, ignoring her head shaking.

"Not all the world revolved around a profit."

"It does when it is the only thing I am good at. If not, then I will make my farewells then." He turned to leave. She tossed him a small bag, jingling with coins. Undoing the tie, he saw the familiar gleam of gold, newly minted from their condition. Satisfied, he tucked the bag away.

"Lead on, Miss Starr." And the pair headed off into the plains.


End file.
